


Just Mates

by girloftheq (qthelights)



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: Cheating, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-29
Updated: 2007-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:08:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qthelights/pseuds/girloftheq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Logan's away...Finn and Rory are left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Mates

When she opens the door to the loud rhythmical knocking she finds Finn in his usual state of disarray. Three-quarter length coat, rumpled olive cargos, equally rumpled dark dress shirt - unbuttoned a button too low for normal decency and revealing a tanned chest and simple leather choker. His hair is a mess of disheveled dark curls at rakish angles.

“Rory, Love! I came to return this.” He leans against the doorjamb brandishing an empty glass at her.

“Er..thankyou?” she says as she takes the proffered item.

“I borrowed it that time, remember? Although it had scotch in it then…” His brow furrows in thought. “I brought some of that too.” 

He fumbles in the various pockets of his coat, comes up with nothing, and the frown deepens. “But it seems to have gone.”

“Perhaps you drank it?” she queries with the hint of a smirk.

“Yes!” Finn’s frown evaporates into a grin and she can only laugh. 

“Well it’s the thought that counts, right?”

“Exactly!” he proclaims and straightens up to go. 

“Wait, do you want to come in?” she asks, gestures back into the apartment.

The apartment is empty with just her in it. Even with only Logan there it used to seem so much homier, warmer. As if the vestiges of ambient noise from the stream of parties – chinking glasses, shrill laughs from tipsy girls, music playing much too loud, conversations shouted to be heard, and the constant shutting of the front door as people spilled in and out – had somehow woven themselves into the fabric of the room.

Even the more muted noises from nights with “the boys” – male laughter and camaraderie, the _thwap_ of pool cues against the eight ball, jests and dares and innuendo raising the ends of sentences when she enters their space –seemed to coat the surfaces like a thick layer of familiarity.

But lately there haven’t been parties, or even the company of the boys. It’s as if Logan has packed that life into his suitcase and taken it with him to London. The place is deathly quiet. Even when she puts music on it feels as if it can never be quite loud enough to fill the room.

Finn raises an eyebrow at her invitation and leers, “Why Rory, my love, are you trying to seduce me?” 

She rolls her eyes. “Funny. I just mean I wouldn’t mind the company. I haven’t seen you in forever. So if you wanted… if you aren’t on your way out to chat up some unsuspecting bar wench, of course.”

He grins evilly. “The wenches will wait. Logan’s girl is in need of company, and I aim to please.”

She moves aside and he strolls confidently into the apartment. He pauses inside and surveys the room intently with overdramatic looks to the left and right. He seems to come to a conclusion and loudly tells her, via the room, “I love what you’ve done with it.”

“I haven’t changed anything,” she answers. 

“Well I like _that_ then,” he says unperturbed. He shrugs out of his coat and flings it over the closest chair. Rory closes the door and wanders anticipatorily to the bar, her bare feet softly padding on the wood of the floor. 

“Drink?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Finn replies, and flops dramatically down into the couch. “Wild Turkey.”

“We’re out.” It wasn’t her drink, she hadn’t bothered to restock after Logan left. There didn’t seem much point.

A grumble comes from the couch. “Something alcoholic.”

“That I can do.” She pours him a scotch, the dimmed downlights of the apartment refracting in the amber liquid. She uses the glass he brought back with him.

Finn uses his feet to push his shoes off producing two thuds as they hit the floor. He squirms in the couch cushions, getting _precisely_ comfortable, and finds the remote where Rory threw it earlier. When he flicks the mute button soft arguing comes from the set where two men are leaning forward in their chairs as if trying to forcibly outdo the other’s politics.

He issues the television a derisive snort.

When she joins him on the couch, bearing his scotch and a vodka concoction for herself, the channel has been changed to a random 50s sci-fi B-movie. She curls up at the other end of the couch - the only patch not overcome by one of Finn’s splayed limbs - and tucks her legs up underneath herself.

“What are we watching?” she asks, eyeing the television over the rim of her martini glass. She takes a sip.

“Not a clue, darling.” He shrugs into the back of the couch, “But it has a fetching blonde looking rather alarmed.” He points at the woman on the screen.

“Yes, it does,” she agrees with a nod and smoothes her skirt down over her knees almost self-consciously, though she doesn’t have a reason to be self-conscious, she reminds herself. 

They watch in uncharacteristic silence. _Uncharacteristic for him anyway_ , she thinks. In fact, she can’t ever remember a time when Finn hasn’t been the one making most of the noise in a room. Even when hung-over he would manage to _grumble_ noisily.

Somewhere around halfway through the movie the blonde has escaped from a large slime thing and she runs and she bounces to safety. Out of the corner of her eye Rory can see that Finn is absolutely riveted to the screen, little miniature views of the tv reflecting in his eyes. _Pretty_ , she thinks and immediately feels it was an odd thing to think.

She watches as he raises his glass, gracefully held in long fingers adorned with chipped black polish. He swallows a small amount of scotch, all the while never taking his eyes from the bedraggled heroine. His lower lip glistens wet and it makes her uncomfortable for a reason she doesn’t want to identify.

He glances over at her when she squirms, the corner of his mouth upturned. “Need more room, Rory love?”

She shakes her head. “No, I’m good. Just getting comfortable.”

“As you should,” he nods. Adjusts the length of his body anyway, drawing the leg closest to her in and up, the other extended lazily to the floor. He drapes a forearm over his bent knee, flicks his wrist to indicate the cleared couch space. “Make yourself at home, Darling. It is yours after all.”

“Another?” She asks holding up her empty glass, and it feels like diversion.

He nods yes and she heads back to the bar. The same for him. Same for her. This time she’s a little more liberal with the quantities. She gets that way when she’s tipsy though. She guesses she must be tipsy then.

She returns to the couch, to the silent watching and the slime thing’s revenge. She spreads out, sitting closer to Finn. His aftershave smells like oranges and freshly cut wood. 

When she sips her drink it’s really more of a mouthful. The vodka burns her throat as it goes down, but the warm languid feeling seeping through her limbs and settling in the pit of her stomach makes up for it.

When the credits roll, slime thing successfully vaporized, world saved, Finn turns to her and holds up his almost empty glass. “You make a good drink, Rory, my dear.”

For some reason the constant pet names annoy her all of a sudden and because she’s tipsy she calls him on it. “Why do you always call me that?”

“What?” 

She fidgets, rethinks the asking under the intensity of his sudden attention. “Love. Darling. All the pet names.”

“Don’t you like me calling you love?” Finn asks, a sparkle of something wicked in his gaze.

She dips her head slightly, as if fending off the blush she feels rising in her cheeks. Tries to keep the embarrassment-brought petulance out of her voice, “That’s not what I asked.” 

“Oh but it’s a much more interesting question, don’t you think?” He grins outright and moves quickly, stealthily, across the last remaining unclaimed couch territory to her side without spilling a drop of his drink.

“What? No,” Rory stammers, startled to find him suddenly encompassing her personal space.

“Rory, My Love,” Finn sighs melodramatically. He grabs her free hand and clasps it to his chest. “Don’t you see? My love for you is eternal and unfaltering, like a, a… unfaltering and eternal thing!” 

“An unfaltering thing?” she mocks, brushing away the surprise of him leaning over her and the sudden accompanying lurch in her chest.

“You laugh? Oh but thy world is cruel,” he mocks, throws back his remaining scotch with a flourish but doesn’t relinquish the hold of her hand at his chest.

“It is cruel..,” she starts to agree only to be cut off by more blatant thespianism.

“But you know not what you say, and now, with the fair Logan gone to faraway shores I have my opportunity!” He waggles his eyebrows lecherously on the word ‘opportunity’ and appraises her up and down salaciously.

“Oh my god,” she rolls her eyes. “Join an improv group or something.”

Another flash of a grin as Finn abandons his empty glass to the coffee table and settles back into the couch. He remains close, against her, so they’re touching down the length of their sides. Releases her clutched hand and she draws it back almost imperceptibly letting her fingertips graze the toned muscle of his chest. She puts the tingling feeling down to being drunk. Though she hasn’t had enough to be drunk a voice in her head points out.

“I am my own theatre company,” he replies in mock-seriousness. “Although I now seem to be a production without grog.” 

He plucks her glass away from her and drains the last drop.

“Hey!” Rory exclaims. “That’s mine!”

“Correction, it _was_ yours,” he says smugly and places the glass with his own on the coffee table before settling back against her side again. He’s warm against her and Rory’s suddenly reminded of how much she misses the physicality of having someone around. Someone to touch and be touched by. The ache of missing Logan suddenly flares in her chest and she’s confused by the anger and abandonment she feels.

And it makes her all the more aware of Finn sitting beside her, warm and _there_. His chest is rising and falling softly as he watches whatever has started after the movie. His eyelids lazily lowered, long dark eyelashes sweeping down.

She swallows the sudden lump in her throat, and the words slip out without her consciously knowing they’re going to. “What would you do, Finn?”

“With what?” He teasingly bumps her shoulder with his own.

“With your opportunity?” she says quietly, staring at her folded hands in her lap.

“With my ….” He stops and is again uncharacteristically silent, but she can’t bring herself to look up at him. She hears him clear his throat, “Uh, Rory Love?”

She makes herself turn to look at him and her breath catches at the dark uncertain want he’s pinning her with. 

“Rory…” he repeats, his voice suddenly low and gravelly.

“I know,” she says, flustered, her hands fluttering up uselessly, “I know, we can’t…it’s just, I miss him and I’m mad at him for leaving me here, I’m mad that he’s having fun with his new friends and the girls with their accents and legs and stupid names – I mean who is called “Bobby” anyway if they’re a girl - and I’m stuck here alone and he doesn’t even think…he never thinks. I want to be thought about, Finn. I want to matter enough that he doesn’t leave me. That people stop leaving me.”

He stops her nervous diatribe with a finger pressed to her lips. “Rory,” he says again, softly, cupping her jaw and turning her towards him with his fingers. “Logan’s my best mate.”

She nods. “I know…and we can’t…God. I’m so stupid. Can we just forget what I said, that I said…”

Finn shakes his head, and settles a hand on her thigh, skirt bunching under his fingers. Despite her embarrassment warmth pools under his hand and along the inside of her leg. 

“That’s not what I mean,” he continues as his thumb rubs languidly just inside her thigh, “Logan’s my mate. But so are you. And he didn’t only leave you, you know?”

There’s something else there that she hears, that she isn’t sure she understands. But she knows the tinge of hurt lacing his words and the tinny sound of resentment underpinning them.

“If it’s what you want, love,” he pauses and leans imperceptibly closer to her. The intensity in his eyes is making her stomach lurch. “I won’t say no, Rory. He isn’t here. Fuck Huntzberger...” Finn trails off but his gaze remains locked on her.

His fingers scrunch against her thigh sending lightning bolts of heat up between her legs, and she can tell he’s trying hard not to step over the line without her permission, without her equal duplicity. His breathing has deepened and she can practically see the tension shiver and shimmer through him.

Rory knows her own eyes are wide and there can be no mistake that Finn knows what she wants to say. Her eyelids flutter as she clings to what she knows is the right thing to do contrasted with the reality of Finn’s hand on her leg, the smell of him so close. 

“Fuck Huntzberger,” she says defiantly, firmly. She doesn’t know what makes her say it, it’s wrong and she knows it. Finn knows it. But she’s tired of wanting. Tired of waiting.

“Yeah?” he grins mischievously and she swears if this wasn’t the 21st century she might have just swooned. It occurs to her, oddly considering the decision she’s just made, that this might actually be more than pure lust and lonely, revenged need. 

It might actually be fun. 

She can’t help grinning back as she confirms, “Yes.” But the grin has little time to linger because the second the word escapes her lips Finn’s mouth is on hers, hot and insistent and tasting of alcohol and _Finn_. His tongue searches for hers and claims it. 

She knows that kissing different people is always a different experience, but she’s never really had someone take _all_ of her like this. She’s surrounded by Finn; his scent, his warmth, his physicality. His mouth meshes with hers until and she knows she couldn’t possibly tell where she begins and he ends.

His hand, with his clutching-wanting-needing fingers, slips under her skirt, between her knees and slides upwards in tantalizing jolts until they’re brushing against her. She’s pretty sure she whimpers into his mouth as he finds her. The thought flashes through her brain that now he knows, that _Finn_ now knows, just exactly how much she wants him as his thumb rubs gently against the thin slickened material. 

Rory inhales sharply and her pelvis automatically tips, pressing her up against Finn’s hand, and the possibility of her earlier whimper is confirmed by the self-assured smile twitching over his now swollen lips.

“Uh-huh,” he grins in a sonorous whisper. His cockiness turns her on rather than puts her off, though she feels the overwhelming urge to let him know that she’s _letting_ him be in control. Whether that’s actually the case or not.

She leans forward to capture his mouth and bites the plumpness of his bottom lip hard in chastisement. The groan she feels reverberate in his chest as he presses closer is extremely satisfying and for a moment their kiss turns into lips and teeth as they both grin into each other, checkmated. And then he’s devouring her again, his mouth slick and everywhere, his thumb tracing lazy but insistent circles below. 

Rory finds herself slipping down the couch and tries to pull herself up, closer to the taller Finn. But he outmaneuvers her and is suddenly straddling _her_ lap, pinning her to the back of the couch. His hands come up and his fingers tangle in her hair as he continues to consume her mouth. 

She manages to get out a sentence when he pulls back to breathe. “I wasn’t going anywhere.” 

“I was making sure,” he smirks. 

Finn moves closer in her lap, his knees on either side of her hip bones, and she can feel him warm and hard against her stomach. The smirk wavers as he presses against her and she can detect the slightest of shudders go through him. “God Rory,” he breathes down at her, the look on his face suddenly serious in its desire. “Fuck Logan, I should have taken you when we met.”

Rory smirks, “You couldn’t even remember my name, Finn.”

“I didn’t need your name,” he winks.

“Hey!” she exclaims and presses her hand against him through his now tight cargo pants.

“Oh dear merciful Jesus,” he grunts pushing into her hand, his slight Aussie accent slipping into something thicker, twangier. His hands fall to his sides, and he grips the edge of the couch.

“No, just me,” she replies primly in a way her mom would have been oh-so-proud-of, er, were the situation slightly, or perhaps a lot, less x-rated.

Finn smiles, his eyes closing and head tilting back as she strokes him through the material. For some reason, she finds the picture absurdly sweet. 

She reaches up with her free hand, fumbles for a second but manages to slip the buttons of his shirt open to expose more tanned, surprisingly muscled chest. She hasn’t really noticed before, but the boy is built. And built well.

His smile widens but his eyes remain closed as she tugs the shirt open and slips a hand in to touch. Tentatively at first she runs her fingertips down his ribs, grazes a nipple – which produces a nice hitch in his breathing, she notes – and slides her hand down over his abs till it meets her otherwise occupied hand below. 

Deftly she flicks open the top button of his pants and draws the zip down. A glance upwards reveals he’s opened his eyes and is watching her. Rory smiles and slips her hand in to wrap around him through his silk boxers. He moans and thrusts into her hand instinctively. She likes this power. This power to subdue him, the ever-boisterous raucous Australian.

He twitches and thickens in her hand and she snakes her hand inside the silk of his boxer shorts so she can feel the delicate skin under her palm. He’s hot and slick as she passes the tip of her thumb over the top of him. Another hitch in his breathing that she wants to wear like a badge.

“Can we do this later, Love?” Finn groans softly, and she’s not sure what he means by it.

He clarifies in response to her unspoken query, “Because, Rory Love, your hand on my cock is driving me insane. And if this is the only chance we’re having then I’m not going to stop you doing what you’re doing.” He stops, swallows heavily, his breathing fast and shallow.

“But?” she asks, a momentary twinge of doubt flickering in her gut. 

“But god, Rory. Love. I need to fuck you right _now_.” He stares directly at her as he says it and she can’t respond for the life of her.

She feels the heat of the blush rise up her neck and flame her cheeks red at the directness of his request. It’s not like she hasn’t said, well, _things_ before, in bed, via text message… but not quite this brazenly, or explicitly. And never the first time she’s spent with someone. She opens her mouth to say something but still nothing comes out.

Finn laughs softly at her and leans in cupping her face in his hands. He kisses her softly, chastely. He leans in, his lips at her ear, breath hot and wet. She closes her eyes at the sensation. His tongue traces the shell of her ear before he whispers, dark and conspiratorial, laden with sin, “Can I fuck you, Rory?”

She whimpers and threads her arms under his shirt, digs her fingers into his back. “Finn, I…”

He interrupts, again, still whispering against her ear, taunting her, “Can I fuck you till you come, Rory? Can I?” His hand slides down her throat to cup a breast, toying at the tautness he finds.

“Oh god,” she moans. She isn’t sure who she even _is_ right now. Can she say those things out loud? Somewhere in the pit of her stomach she feels that just maybe being with Finn makes her the kind of girl who can.

“Tell me, Rory Love,” he demands firmly and draws his lips back to her mouth, hovers there, touching but not taking. He nips at her top lip. Her bottom lip. Grinds his hips downwards pressing hardness against her, where she wants him, where she can have him, if only she’ll ask.

“Please, Finn…” she whimpers into his mouth. “Please…”

“Tell me, Rory,” he repeats, gentler this time but no less firmly.

 

“I…,” she takes a gulp of air. “I want you to fuck me, Finn. Need, actually,” she stammers. “Need you to fuck me now. Right now.” 

She rushes the words out against his mouth and he swallows them, keeps them secret inside him, keeps her safe, and she feels a surge of affection for him that goes beyond lust or friendship.

“That’s my girl,” he grins and she has no idea if she should feel patronized or proud but the heated arousal that floods through her overrules any logical thinking. She does need him. And she does need him _now_.

Finn reaches for her and suddenly she’s being hoisted up against the back of the couch, his strong arms keeping her from falling headlong onto the floor. She makes a mental note to thank Logan’s decorator for the couch being so heavy. 

His mouth is back on hers, his tongue possessing her whole mouth. She helps him tug down pants and hitch up her skirt all the while not relinquishing the need of their mouths and balancing precariously against the couch back. There’s no grace in their movements now. Only need and its jerky, fumbling, clumsiness. 

His fingers are pulling the sodden material of her underwear aside and she can feel the searing hotness of the tip of him as he presses against her soft flesh. He teases her, pressing forward and pulling back.

“Now, Finn,” she clutches at him with her voice, tentativeness overwhelmed by her desperate need to have him in her. “Fuck me _now_.”

Her last words are heard by neither of them as he pushes up into her, hard and fast, and neither of them is aware of anything but sensation. He pauses, savors, and then pushes up deeper. She wraps her legs around his hips, slips further down onto him and uses the couch at her back as leverage.

Finn thrusts against her and they cling to each other, Rory burying her face into the crook of his neck. She bites at the taut tendons of his throat and finds that it makes him push up into her even more voraciously. She nips more, urging his carnality on. This isn’t the time for nice, she thinks as she digs fingernails into his shoulder blades.

They’re sticking together in sweat and gasped moans and Rory isn’t sure she can take much more as Finn continues to push into her again and again. Judging by the shivering she can feel in his arms around her back, she doubts he can last much longer either.

When Finn releases one arm from around her and snakes a hand down in-between them to press a black nail-polished thumbnail hard against her, she knows it’s all over. Built tension peaks and tightens and she shudders with a cry as she comes around him. 

“God, Rory,” Finn manages in a strangled gasp before he’s swept into his own orgasm and they cling to each other in quivers and trembles, gasping at air.

Finn’s legs threaten to buckle and he pulls her down onto the couch, awkwardly considering their half removed clothing. She can feel him slip out of her as he moves. He tugs his pants up loosely around his waist, freeing the binding of his legs, smoothes her skirt down over her hips. As if the clothing makes their indiscretion less blatant. 

He kisses her face, her nose, the line of sweat at her hairline, her mouth. 

“Wow,” she whispers and then can’t help grinning, “thank you.” She always says thank you it seems, no matter the occasion.

Finn licks her bottom lip and returns the grin, “No worries, mate.”

She laughs at his sex-induced Australian-ness and rests a hand just inside his cargos on his naked warm hip. They’re quiet for a moment as their breathing returns to something approaching normal.

“I’ve never been to Australia,” she says randomly, an edge of fatigue tinting her voice.

“You should. You’d like it. Get Logan to stop being a tightarse and take you there,” he quips, slightly sardonically.

“What’s it like?” She closes her eyes just for a second and snuggles in closer to him.

“Hmm, lets see,” he murmurs in a comforting, low-toned voice. A very non-Finn voice. He pulls her closer to him, but not before hooking a finger into the neckline of her singlet top and taking an obvious peek. Okay, so he’s still him. She laughs at him without bothering to open her eyes. 

This Finn is new. Quieter, softer. Less theatrical, less dramatic. Different, but still Finn.

“Well, it’s hot, and there are a lot of beaches. Lots of spiders.” He laughs at her mock shudder of disgust. He smoothes his palm back and forth down her spine. “And, there’s a fair lot of good looking girls who don’t mind showing a bit of skin, which I never minded.” 

She makes an amused mewling noise and he continues both the stroking and the talk. 

“There’s next to no air-conditioning, it’s a bit backward and a bit small but also kinda progressive. More than here in some ways. You’ll never be able to find a decent American style pizza and there’s no real Mexican food so you’ll fade away into nothingness.” He pauses. “And it’s the best place on earth.”

Rory feels herself slipping into sleep and doesn’t really mind, she’s quite content to stay where she is, and with who she is with. It’s Finn, and that seems okay, although she doesn’t know why. It really shouldn’t, but it does.

“Which is good,” she hears him add. “Because if Logan ever finds out about this then I’m going to have to move back there. No matter how many drunken nights of debauchery he and I may or may not have had in Bimini.”

She grins, forces her eyes to open and finds him watching her with a bemused look of wondering and contentment. “Well then, we’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t find out then,” she says firmly. 

“Or make him join in,” he smirks.

“Or that,” she says, an eyebrow arching in questioning interest.

“But he’s not here now,” Finn says.

“No,” Rory replies. “He’s not here now.”


End file.
